


the thing about secrets

by scribblscrabbl



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Arthur takes it all in stride, Established Relationship, M/M, he really can be an insufferable idiot, jealous!Eames, this is actually really sappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 06:09:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2570978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblscrabbl/pseuds/scribblscrabbl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur adopts a kitten and Eames is, for a lack of a better word, jealous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the thing about secrets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aaahha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aaahha/gifts).



> For aaahha, who prompted me with jealousy, more than once, and I've finally delivered, but not really because there's no porn, which is sad. Feel free to not read this if you were expecting jealousy!sex. BUT there is stupid humor and sappy romance. A nice little respite from all the angst I've been writing.

It’s a stray they come across in between jobs, in an alleyway in Ankara. A scrawny, dirty, feisty thing that Arthur scoops up without a word and brings back to their rented flat without so much as a thought to the diseases it’s likely carrying or whether Eames is deathly allergic to cats. All of this Eames points out on their walk home, arms flailing about, while Arthur just clutches the creature a little more tightly, as if Eames might rip the thing out of his arms and do something predictably depraved.

“She just needs to be fed and cleaned and cared for. Then she’ll be good as new. Won’t you, _mon petit chou_.”

Those words in that lovely, lilting French send Eames reeling because Arthur’s never called _him_ that, no matter how persistently he lavishes Arthur with endearments, and, frankly, it’s all maddeningly incongruous. Arthur in his slate gray Yves Saint Laurent and polished Tom Ford wingtips, pristine and dangerously sharp, cuddling and murmuring sweet nothings to a ball of matted fur currently dirtying his cuffs. He never lets _anything_ dirty his cuffs if he can help it.

So Eames thinks he can hardly be blamed if he’s feeling a tad bit jealous.

*

He’s not actually deathly allergic to cats, which he finally admits to Arthur when he senses the argument losing traction. In fact, he likes them well enough, though this fact he resolutely conceals, if only to preserve some small amount of dignity. So when Arthur names it Sophie—an elegant, charming, preposterous name for a street cat—and brings her along on their next job, Eames makes a point of shooing her away when she gets too close and, in particular, ignoring the way Arthur spoils her with his long fingers and bright smiles.

By the time afternoon rolls around on the second day, Eames has his forehead down against his desk and Ariadne is chortling into her tea.

“Oh my god, Eames, you’re jealous. Of a _kitten_.” She sounds positively gleeful, voice carrying too far for anyone’s good.

“Will you keep it down,” Eames hisses before realizing what he should’ve done was wave off the accusation with an appropriate dose of nonchalance. Now he’ll definitely never hear the fucking end of it.

“And Arthur’s completely oblivious. Oh my god, I love my job.” 

Eames breathes and counts slowly to five before sitting up in his chair. 

“Ariadne, my dear, I like you. I’ve liked you from the very beginning. But careful where you tread because, so help me God, if you get on my bad side you will rue the day.” 

He speaks slowly, with dark purpose, and he thinks he must be going soft because she just grins widely and goes back to work, _whistling_ as she peers at her scale models. 

It’s close to sunset, when he’s just about fed up with sifting through the details of their mark’s sordid nightly activities, that he gives in. Throws his pen onto his desk in disgust and leans back in his chair, eyes seeking out his better half because after a full ten hours of stubborn avoidance he misses Arthur, with a pang that infiltrates the spaces in his chest left wide open by Arthur’s absence. 

Arthur’s still hunched over his work, one hand twirling his pen and the other stroking Sophie absentmindedly, fingers extending and curling methodically, making her purr loudly enough for Eames to hear. It’s utterly baffling and utterly endearing, this instinctual attachment Arthur has to his new tiny, furry pet. 

Up until now he thought he had Arthur puzzled out, Arthur’s pieces laid meticulously in their proper places. Efficient, disciplined, smart without being overly educated, incorrigibly logical, compulsively organized, lethal with a firearm and unrepentantly so, bearing a weakness for French pastries and slow Sunday mornings. But this side is new, the way his lines soften and crumple when he glances at Sophie, the care he takes in making sure she’s perfectly content and perfectly safe, the adoration he displays so unconsciously when she’s under his hands. 

If Eames didn’t think Arthur would be the end of him before, he thinks it now, surrendering slowly, slowly, and then all at once.

When they’re finally back at the hotel for the night, Eames is content to resume his watching as Arthur unbuttons his cuffs and loosens his tie. Sophie, somehow sensing the crumbling of his defenses, insinuates herself onto his lap and pushes against his hand.

“She likes you.” Arthur’s mouth twitches as he walks over to Eames, eyes dark and inviting.

“God knows why.” Eames smiles a little and then swallows when Arthur picks her up and proceeds to straddle his thighs, hands hot against his chest, body pliant. “Maybe she can smell your scent on me.”

Arthur lets out a little groan, hips surging against Eames, breaths unsteady and deep.

“I’ve told her all about you. Smooth criminal with a gambling problem and god awful taste in clothes. Can’t be trusted.”

“Darling, it’s hardly a secret.”

Arthur smiles, unreservedly, and Eames holds his breath, imagining it’d be all right if the world ended here and now.

“No. The secret is, I’m crazy about you.”

*

Eames starts the next day with a great deal more cheer and professionalism than the last, because, admittedly, he’s been a bit of an insufferable bastard about the whole thing. So when Ariadne clears her throat, not so much to inquire if he wants her opinion as to prepare herself to give it whether he wants it or not, he indulges her.

“Yes, Ariadne?” He swivels in his chair, inevitably getting distracted by the sight of Arthur bowing his head towards Sophie, fingers petting tirelessly, to whisper something to her no one else can hear.

“I’m not the sappy, squishy, fuzzy-hearted type who gets all swoony over words of love or whatever. But,” she glances at Arthur, then back at Eames, “the way he looks at that cat, all adoring and soft-eyed? Multiply that by two and that’s how he looks at you. So quit being an idiot, Eames. It’s so painfully _obvious_.”

He takes a moment to let her comment blindside him, and then he smiles, thinking that, for Arthur, he can let himself be obvious.

**Author's Note:**

> Google "joseph gordon levitt kitten" and you will not be disappointed.


End file.
